Counterplay

Besides, if I don’t think the Pope should call it off, how could I stay home? I’m going.”

“Figured as much,” Jaxon said. “Well, I’m going to talk to a couple of my guys who, like you said, I’d trust with my life. And then go find the head of the pontiff’s Swiss Guard security detail.”

“Swiss Guard? I thought those guys were ceremonial? The metal helmets and pikes.”

“Some of what they do is ceremonial and medieval,” Jaxon said. “But they’ve changed with the times, too. They’re all former elite Swiss military and well trained.”

“Trust them?”

“Yeah. These guys are the Vatican’s version of the Untouchables. All Catholic. Impeccable reputations. Five hundred years of dedication to the Pope. If we can’t trust them, we might as well just give the world to Kane. Anyway, I want to find one of my best guys, K. C. Chalk, ex-Navy SEAL, and let him in on this…. What’s next for you?”

“I’m going to make a couple of calls, one to Denton,” Karp said. “He’ll know what to do as far as security outside the cathedral and on the motor route without tipping anybody else off.”

“Who else?”

“Detective Clarke Fairbrother. I think he was taking the day off, but maybe he’d like to keep an eye on his old friend Emil Stavros after the electricity goes out.”

“See you in a bit, then…. Oh, if you’re not the white king, then Marlene probably isn’t the white queen. So who is?”

This was the conclusion that Karp hadn’t wanted to reach. But his conversation with himself had served as a reminder that the terrorists in New Mexico weren’t just trying to kill John Jojola and Ned Blanchet. “That’s a big part of why I want to be down there…. I hate to say it, but I think the white queen is Lucy.”

31

After her husband left for the office, Marlene spent most of the rest of the afternoon pacing and occasionally scowling at the rooftop of the building across the street where she could from time to time see the guys from the Homeland Security sniper team. Two more feds from the agency were stationed on the street outside the loft and another on the landing outside her door.

Jon Ellis had stopped by personally to ask that she and the rest of the family remain inside until it was time for her to go to the cathedral. “My guys have a lot on their hands today and, well, I’ve heard you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself,” he said. “But having you on the streets with the kids will make it that much tougher.”

Marlene had reluctantly agreed. The weather wasn’t so nice anyway. Indian summer had for the day anyway turned overcast and drizzly with wet gusts of wind blowing north from the harbor. Still, she didn’t like being kept like a tethered goat waiting for the tiger to show while the hunters sat in their blinds.

Whenever she got tired of pacing, she watched the pageantry leading up to the arrival of the Pope at St. Patrick’s Cathedral at about noon on the television. The twins had watched with her for a bit but quickly had grown tired of it, whined about not getting to go out, and retreated to their bedroom when she snapped at them to “quit driving me nuts.”

The ceremony wasn’t scheduled to begin until seven o’clock that evening, and the Pope was said to be resting in the archbishop’s residence attached to the rear of the cathedral. However, that didn’t deter the networks from wall-to-wall coverage of “The Pope Visits America.” They’d filmed every foot of his movements after he’d transferred into his bulletproof “Pope Mobile” following the initial drive in from LaGuardia so that he could wave to the faithful already lining the streets leading up to the police barricades several blocks from the cathedral. The white space between his arrival at St. Patrick’s and the evening’s event they were breathlessly filling with interviews with tourists and cuts to talking heads discussing various church issues, such as the impact the conservative Pope’s visit would have on wayward American Catholics who supported abortion rights and the ordination of female priests.

Some dignitaries-ranging from politicians, to stars of stage and screen, to the fabulously wealthy-began arriving in midafternoon. Perhaps thinking they might get a private audience with His Holiness if they arrived a bit earlier than the others. Their arrival gave the bored television reporters, who treated each occasion of a recognizable celebrity pulling up like Oscar night, something to do.

Marlene wondered if Lucy and Ned got in okay, but she hadn’t heard anything to the contrary. She was sure Father Dugan wouldn’t have a problem; he was resourceful that way. And she wished again that her father had been willing to get dressed up and attend.

Father Mike could get you in with Lucy and Ned, she’d told him the day before. Your one and only chance of a lifetime to get that close to the Pope.

Mariano Ciampi had been a good Catholic his entire life, rarely missing a mass, going to confession at least once a week, and arguing with his youngest daughter, Marlene, about being a pick-and-choose Catholic.

We aren’t Methodists…or New Agers. You don’t get to dabble a toe here and a toe there to see how you like the water. Being Catholic is jumping in feet first, he’d lectured her once during her college days. You don’t get to say, “I like the pretty music, so I’ll go to church, but I don’t like what the Pope says about premarital sex, so I’ll sleep around.”

Marlene had known better than to argue with him-though in her younger, self-righteous years she’d done plenty of that, as her mother, Concetta, clucked around, asking her to not rile your father. Later, she’d discovered the benefit of keeping her mouth shut on matters of religion, especially as it intersected secular issues like abortion rights. But as she’d grown older, she’d also found comfort in the steadfast, unbending, principles of her church.

In things secular, Mariano was a patriot. Even if he didn’t vote for him, the president of the United States was to be respected-at least the office, if not the man. But in things spiritual, the Pope was infallible. So she was surprised when he turned down the offer to see the pontiff in person.

Nah, it’s too much trouble, he said. I’m going to stay here with your mother.

Mom’s gone, Pops, Marlene said gently.

I know that, the old man scowled. I meant with her…memory. I think maybe she’d be jealous if I got to go see the Pope without her.

I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, Marlene said. Come on, I’ll stop by and help you get ready and you can sit with Lucy and-

No! I don’t want to go, Mariano said, standing up out of his easy chair, suddenly angry, or panicked, she couldn’t tell. I don’t deserve to go without your mother.

Okay. Okay, calm down, Marlene said, taking him by his shaking shoulders and easing him back into the chair. It’s going to be on television anyway. You’ll probably see more.

Yeah, yeah, we’ll be more comfortable here, Mariano said. He’d settled down then, but as she turned to leave, he’d grabbed her by the hand, which he kissed and held next to his cheek. Please, if you get the chance to speak to him privately, would you ask him to say a prayer for your mother…and for me.

She leaned over and kissed him on top of his head. Yeah, sure, Pops. A special prayer for Mariano and Concetta Ciampi…a special place for them to be together in heaven.

Mariano had laughed at the image. A small home in Queens with your mother when she and I were young, and all of you were babies…that’s what I’d call heaven.

Marlene managed to get to her car before she broke down and started crying. Recalling the discussion the next afternoon, she had to catch herself to prevent the tears from falling again. She turned back to the television where a reporter was describing all the extra-ordinary security precautions-helicopters overhead, police officers on horseback, plainclothes police officers working the crowds around the barricades, metal detectors for anyone going into the cathedral. “Even Russian president Vladimir Putin’s appearance at the United Nations later next week